And We Will Run
by The Enchanted Quill
Summary: Sacrifices are made by both sides early on in the war.


**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Warner Bros Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

The clouds had stolen across the sky before anyone noticed. Students frowned unhappily at their damp papers and slowly trudged inside. Throughout the castle, fires and torches were being lit; lamps were being flicked on. Those who knew the passage to the kitchens tickled the pear in the portrait and asked for hot chocolate and marshmallows. Sofas and armchairs and thick rugs were cheerfully squashed.

The halls were empty, abandoned for warmer nooks and crannies. Even the Slytherins, down in the draughty dungeons, would be warmer there.

The grounds were slick with ice and patches of snow. As the hours dwindled by, the snow started and stopped several times until the snow was several foot deep.

The outside became less wet and muddy. The air became a gossamer scent that was crisp, chilly and bright, earthy and haunting. She could smell bitter-sweet walnut, pallid flowers, dusty woods and soft herbs. Night-blooming flowers added their notes to the slush. Pale musk, spruce. Magic blossomed boldly in the night.

* * *

Not knowing what to do was beyond her comprehension.

Girls fancied Harry because he was a hero, a public figure who didn't like the attention, Quidditch captain. And he wasn't bad to look at, either.

Girls fancied Draco Malfoy because he wasn't a hero, and he didn't want to be. He was a Malfoy, he was certainly good looking, but most of all, it was because he looked so shuttered whenever he wasn't flaunting or taunting. Girls wanted to draw him out, make him lose control, make him burn. What an accomplishment it would be, to make that pale skin blush, to set him on fire.

He wasn't in control now, but Hermione didn't feel any elation. On the contrary, it was a terrible thing to see, and she wished she hadn't.

His fingers were curled tight and white-knuckled around the sink. His hands were braced against the porcelain, arms rigid, head bowed. She couldn't see his eyes.

Those eyes suddenly snapped to meet hers in the mirror, and she felt afraid.

"Malfoy," she uttered, mind going momentarily blank, her wand in her pocket and her hands slack at her sides.

She saw him spin around to face her, and still she wasn't moving for her wand. The wand pointed at her and the curse that would follow it didn't come. Instead, he lunged at her.

She gasped as her spine hit the doorknob, and her back arched away from the blunt pain. He held her still, larger, broom-roughened hands digging into her shoulders.

"You think I don't know you were following me?" he snarled.

"If you have a problem—"

"My problems," he hissed, "are so much bigger than you." He let her go and stepped away from her, breathing hard, his breaths making his body shudder. At the door, he paused. "Don't ever follow me again," he said, and left.

* * *

It was only 7, but evening was short and night reigned fast. They would have to be back in their beds soon, before the professors cast the safety wards on the door of the castle.

They walked side by side, near but not quite touching.

She recalled the last time they had been out there. She sank into a snowdrift and he had laughed, looking down at her, buried to her knees by the wet and soft snow. She had looked up at him, backlit against a breathless backdrop of black night and high moon. He almost looked like a silhouette.

She had been sputtering at the cold when he grasped her hands and tugged her out and into him, holding her firmly against his lean body. He hadn't been afraid to touch her then. He hadn't been so withdrawn.

"I can help you," she fumbled, even though she knew it was the wrong thing to say, possibly the worst thing to say.

"Do you think it's so easy? Do you think it's easy to tell the Dark Lord no? Do you think it's easy for me to do this? I don't have a choice. I don't have the luxury of being someone—" He seemed to choke on the words. "I can't be someone—I am a Death Eater, Hermione, do you fucking understand? Do you believe me? Do you want to see it? The Dark Mark? I belong to someone else. I have never belonged to anyone else or anything or anywhere, least of all to you." His voice was pained. "You always have the right answers, Perfect Prefect Granger, know-it-all, you always know what to do. You're so bloody moral and black and white and you're always so bloody right. You've always been right," he snarled breathlessly.

Coldly, he demanded, "Do you believe me, Hermione?"

She raised herself up on her toes and kissed him hungrily, feeling the slant of his hard mouth on hers. His lips were cold, but his tongue was hot and he was ever so responsive, no longer passive and hoarding himself away.

One hand caressed her cheek as the other gripped her hands tight in a fist, and he said jerkily, "Do you?"

She pulled free of him and wrapped her arms around him, turning her face into his shoulder to breathe in deep the smell of Draco. He dipped his head down pressing feverish kisses over her eyes. "Do you believe me?" he asked raggedly.

"I believe in you," she whispered, twining her arms around his neck, hearing, at last, no more of the crunching of snow beneath their feet, just Draco breathing hard and the wind in dead branches.

* * *

"Draco," she sobbed, clutching at his scarf tied around his neck, holding him to her, making it so he couldn't leave, "Draco, don't, don't."

"What, Hermione?" he asked wearily, and he sounded so tired that she was frightened, and she couldn't bear to look at him, yet she couldn't stand to look away either. It hurt to look at him, to see the angry acceptance on his face, and she thought about provoking him, telling him, Harry would fight to hold onto what he wants.

He looked worn to the bone, and she knew she didn't want to hurt him, even if it meant saving something of him for herself.

"One more time," she said. She held the ends of his Slytherin green and silver scar tightly, catching his eyes, holding his focus. "Just tell me, just one more time."

"We have to go, Hermione," he growled, trying to break free without shoving her aside. "They're going to cast the wards soon, and they're going to notice us going in—"

She tightened her grip on him, hauling him close to her. "Tell me."

He stopped trying to extract himself from her grasp. She felt the rise and fall of his chest, and she saw the resignation in his eyes along with the question, Why?

"I love you," he said. And then, "Never again."

She wished he would raise his voice. She wanted to hear it clearly. And then, no, no, no. Don't tell me never again. Give me your very best lie, but don't tell me never again.

He gave her something better. Or worse, depending on how she looked at it later.

"You have my soul," he whispered, brushing his lips along the warmth of her neck. The contact was too brief, the touch too little. She wanted his hands on her face, his arms around her, his long legs trapping hers, and she kept herself very still, so as not to reach out to him again and hold him when she wouldn't be able to. "Keep it."

At the castle, she paused.

"Go in first," she said, lips numb and dry. "I want to stay outside a bit longer."

He didn't object.

* * *

Hermione looked at the snow falling down and looked carefully at all her memories of Draco. There were no flaws now, she decided, examining each memory studiously. She could recall the colour of his sweater and the angle he tilted his head.

In the morning, she would go to the library and find a way to make her own Pensieve so those memories could be evergreen.


End file.
